From the Silence
by Nicole Berman
Summary: GS. 5th in Butterfly series. The answer to the riddle is in the discovery of the solution. Email me for the NC-17 version.


It all starts somewhere.

I listened to the director of the lab, half-attentive as I pretended to take notes.  I was memorizing every word he said, but my mind wasn't truly in Long Beach.  I idly drew a large capital 'I' in the middle of my notepad, then closed the open sides with parallel lines.  In each resulting rectangle, I connected the corners with diagonal lines, until I had two Xs in boxes.  The director continued his monologue about purchase orders, while I tried to re-create my little diagram by drawing the same lines in a different order.  I tried six different ways, but it always came out skewed or uneven.  Then I thought that perhaps the only way to do some things was in a particular order.

A square of nine dots on paper, and you can only draw four lines to connect them, without the pen ever leaving the paper.

A man on his way to market with three possessions: a lion, a goat and a bale of hay.  He needs to sell all three to make enough money for his family. Before he gets to the market, he must cross a river. There is a small boat that is the only way across.  However, the boat is so small he can only take one thing at a time across the river. How does he get all his possessions across safely?

Maybe some riddles aren't meant to be solved immediately.  Perhaps some of the rush of pride one experiences from solving a puzzle is a result of all the frustrating wrong turns made along the way.  It stands to reason that the key to a riddle like Grissom might be logically exhausting every alternative avenue before finally stumbling onto the correct approach.  Call it providence, call it persistence, call it dumb luck – something subtle had changed between us since our kiss.  For the rest of my visit, Grissom had done his best to pretend that it hadn't happened, and I didn't press him to hash it out.  We worked on my sign language and tossed around the idea of my returning to Las Vegas.  I had the opportunity to help Grissom with two more crime scenes.  We were fairly inseparable for three days, to my surprise.  I had thought that by the second day, we'd be tired of each other's company, but it seemed every time I started to ask if he might want some space, Grissom waved off the suggestion.  I realized exactly how serious he was about establishing a tether to the world, and I felt a pleasant warmth in my chest at the idea that I was the person with whom he'd chosen to connect.

When we were finally released from the staff meeting, I bolted to my office and shut the door, sinking into my chair.  I clicked my messenger on and couldn't help the grin that overtook me.

"Good evening."

"Hey," I typed quickly.  "How's things?"  That was my way of asking how he was feeling, without appearing nosy - a fact that Grissom had quickly figured out and called me on.

"Fine, thanks.  You?"  That was Grissom-speak for 'Thanks for caring enough to ask.'

I wrote back, "Doing well.  Couple more days and I'm out of here for the holidays."

"Great."

"It'll be good to see Vegas again."  I felt as if 'I miss you, Griss,' might as well have been superimposed across my IM.

"When do you get in?" Grissom asked.

"The 22nd.  Why?"

"Just thought we might have dinner."

"You miss me," I wrote, adding, 'teasing' in parentheses, so he would know I was.

"Yes."

My heart began to pound and my grin widened.  Just then, my phone rang and I glanced at the caller ID.  It was my supervisor, which meant a new case had come in that needed my attention.  I sighed, and tapped out, "Me, too.  I've gotta go, new case.  Tell you all about it tomorrow morning."

"I'll hold you to that."

* * *

The week seemed to drag on forever, but it finally ended, and I was on a Vegas-bound plane.  I caught a cab from McCarran International and grinned like an idiot when it dropped me off in front of the building that housed the CSI lab.  I strode inside and went straight for the break room, dropping my overnight bag in a corner, out of the way.  Taking the corner at top speed, I ground to a halt in front of his office.  The door was closed, but I noticed a new addition – a small white box, which looked curiously like a doorbell.  I pressed it and murmured appreciatively when Grissom opened the door and I saw the blinking lights.  "Nice," I signed.  He grinned, stepping back to allow me into the office.  I hadn't seen the flicker of his half-smile in almost eight weeks, but for the way I reacted, it might as well have been eight years.  My heart skipped a few beats, keeping time with a nervous drummer I couldn't hear.

Shutting the door behind us, Grissom didn't take up his seat behind his desk; instead, he turned one visitor's chair to face the other and offered me one with a gesture.  "Sit," he signed.

"Do I look like a puppy?" I signed back with a grin, sitting down gratefully.

He shook his head.  "On the contrary, you look wonderful."

"Flattery will get you everywhere."  I couldn't help grinning, my hands flying.

"Hey," Grissom signed, his face registering surprise, "you don't pause before you answer me anymore."

I nodded, my smile morphing from pleased amusement to utter pride.  "Last time I saw you, I was halfway through a beginning ASL class at Long Beach City College.  Now you're looking at a graduate of a level four sign language course.  Passed with an 'A', I might add."

"That's fantastic, Sara."  A real, full smile inched its way onto Grissom's face, exploring unfamiliar territory.

"Thanks.  Have I ever told you that I love the way you sign my name?" I wondered what had gotten into me, but found I suddenly didn't care.  I had initiated a kiss and the world hadn't crumbled beneath my feet; now, nothing was out of reach.

"No," Grissom signed slowly, his smile not completely gone.

Just to keep him on his toes, I dropped the subject abruptly.  "You have a lot of work left?" I signed, eyeing the stack of papers on his desk.

"Nothing that can't wait."  I must've looked surprised, because Grissom added, "Are you surprised that I'd rather spend time with you than do paperwork?"

"There was a time you would rather have spent an evening with Ecklie than with me," I reminded him quickly.

Grissom's swift signs challenged even my practiced eyes.  "There was a time I thought the greatest thrill in the world was seeing my Madagascar hissers go up against champions like Cocky Balboa.  I've learned a few things in the past couple of years."

"Like what – I'm more interesting than a cockroach race?" I chuckled as I signed.

"Infinitely more so."

I laughed harder.  "You're such a charmer."

Grissom raised one eyebrow.  "You have no idea."

* * *

"'The Breed for Speed'," I signed the title incredulously.  "You mean these people make a living selling racing roaches?"

Tapping the brochure with one finger, Grissom signed back, "They're thoroughbred, Sara.  If you worked these boys on the race circuit – I mean a full racing schedule, not the kind we have here with one race a week – you'd be surprised how much money you can make."  He sighed silently, shaking his head, as he signed faster.  "This kind of thing is making what should be a sport into a business instead.  It's a damn shame."

I hid my smile as I nodded in understanding.  "You take this very seriously," I signed.

Grissom shrugged slightly as he finished his dessert.  One advantage I'd discovered about sign language – you can talk with your mouth full.  "I hate seeing anything that's purely for fun being turned on its ear by avarice and lazy men."

I nodded again, feeling a rush of déjà vu.  "It seems we've sat and talked like this before," I signed with a grin, paraphrasing an old song.  Grissom smiled at me, and I began to worry that if his smile always had that effect on my heart, I'd die of arrhythmia before I reached forty.  I finally took a look around the restaurant and shook my head slowly.  "We better leave before they kick us out," I signed, signaling the waiter.  Grissom and I engaged in a signed battle for the check (which I won) and then were on our way out.

We stepped into the desert night and the chill hit me square in the chest.  I shivered, and my shiver turned into a tremble as I felt Grissom's arm around my shoulders.  "Cold?" he signed, imitating a shivering person as best he could with one half occupied.  I nodded numbly and he rubbed my bicep vigorously.  "Better?"

I turned slightly and was shocked to find his mouth a breath from mine.  "Thanks."  I was grateful that my hands were doing the talking, since my heart was lodged in my throat and had been since his first gentle touch.

"Anytime.  Sara…"

"Grissom?"  I made a 'g' and laid my hand on his chest instead of my own.

He cradled my face between his palms and I didn't dare breathe, for fear of waking myself up.  I knew I must be dreaming.  His fingertips on my cheeks were too light to be real, too gentle to be true.  Grissom's lips inched toward mine.  I could feel the rhythmic quivering of his frame, and I knew instinctively that it wasn't caused by the cool night air.  *I* was having this effect on him.  I had shaken the unshakeable.  Grissom's left hand slid into a fist against my cheek, and his lips moved almost imperceptibly.  I smiled, realizing quickly that in his own way, he was whispering my name.  That touched me deep inside, bringing tears to the surface, tears I had tried to hide from him so many times.  This time, Grissom couldn't see the tears in my eyes, because he had closed his by the time the first one fell.  When the second and third glanced off my cheek, his lips were brushing mine in a gentle ghost of a kiss.  The fourth tear declared a retreat and called off the rest when Grissom's hands fell away from my face and his arms circled my waist.

My arms slid around his neck and he kissed me harder.  I whispered his name against his lips and Grissom leaned back to peer at me, his face flushed.  "Sara…"  I prayed he wouldn't call it a mistake, a lapse in judgment, a momentary lack of logical thought.  When he didn't say anything else, I tilted my head, nodding slowly, to let him know it was all right to speak his mind.  Typically Grissom, he didn't finish the sentence.  He just turned and slid his arm around my shoulders again.

We climbed in the car and I started the engine.  The silence I had loved was oppressive and threatening as we headed out of Vegas proper, toward his townhouse.  We came to a red light and he glanced at me.  "Thank you for dinner," I signed stiffly.

"I thought…maybe…"  The light changed and the driver behind us honked irritably.  I turned away from Grissom to drive.  In a few minutes, I had parked the car in front of Grissom's building.  When I glanced at him, he started to sign immediately.  "You're mad."

"No," I lied in sign, no quivering voice to give me away.

"Yes, you are.  I'm sorry.  I didn't…I mean…"  Grissom took a deep breath and I watched him in wonder.  It wasn't often I saw him fumbling and uncertain.  "My mother was right.  I'm being an asshole."

"About what?"  I ignored the tightening in my stomach that accompanied a rush of dread.  I had a sinking feeling that whatever progress we'd made in the past two years was about to be crushed in its tiny tracks.

Grissom inhaled deeply again.  "About you."  He paused for a long moment, then signed, "And you were right."  I know my reaction was one of surprise, but he never explained what he meant.  "Sara…"

"That's the third time you've said my name," I signed, hoping my expression showed the tenderness I was trying to feel beneath my fear.  "What is it?"

Our eyes were locked for a long time.  Finally, Grissom broke the stillness with a few swift signs.  "Come up for coffee?"

* * *

We were back on his couch, where we'd spent so many hours before, each of us clutching a mug of coffee as if it were an amulet.

"Grissom," I signed, mouthing a sigh so he knew I was frustrated.  "Every time we seem to make a little progress, you shut down.  Please, talk to me."

"I can't – I'm tired of talking," Grissom signed, his eyes weary.

"Oh."  Hurt, I set my mug down hard and coffee splashed over the side, but I didn't care.  "Okay," I signed rapidly, "I better go."

"No," Grissom signed emphatically.  "I didn't mean it, not like that."  I drew my eyes away from his hands to look into his eyes, searching for something I wasn't certain now that he was capable of feeling.  I saw something, though.  Fear?  I sighed deeply.  "I'm tired of talking," Grissom repeated.  Before I could snap out a sarcastic reply, his hand was cupping my cheek, and his mouth was pressed over mine tenderly.  I closed my eyes and every harsh word and rejected advance fell away as our lips melded into a warm circle.  The flood of fear into my heart was washed out by the stronger tide of optimism.

Grissom broke our kiss, leaning back and breathing heavily.  I smiled at him, touching his cheek with one shaking palm.  With an equally unsteady hand, he reached for the hem of my shirt.  My smile widened into a grin as I felt his hand on my stomach.  Nodding quickly, I raised my arms and Grissom slid the shirt over my head, draping it carefully over the back of the couch as if it were made of the finest silk.  Strangely, I felt as comfortable with him as if we'd been here thousands of times.  He ran a hand tenderly over my left breast and I exhaled with a shudder.  Seeing the shiver in my chest, Grissom met my eyes with a soft smile, and I was taken aback by his expression.  It was as if the layer of ice over his soul had melted, revealing the ground beneath – fallow but bare, with just a seedling of emotion as proof that it could sustain life.  My heart ached; I wanted to tell him how much I loved him, that I'd always loved him, from the first time he'd said my name.  The summer I turned twenty-three, Gil Grissom had stolen my heart, and I had never been able to liberate it.  I had never thought to try.

We made love, slowly and carefully, as we done everything in our new relationship this far.  When it was over, we separated and I watched him, wondering how this would affect the connection we'd been building.  Grissom's expression was drawn and worried, and I cupped his cheek for a moment, enjoying the fact that I now had the freedom to do that.  "What's wrong?" I pulled away to sign.

"Nothing.  Just…wondering."

"Wondering?" I repeated.

"Where we go from here."

I shook my head, unable to think of an answer.  "I think we just…go."  I set upon an idea and grinned brightly.  Sitting up, I pulled the bed sheet over my naked body and began to sign swiftly.  "Grissom, you like riddles, right?"

"Yes."  He pushed himself into a sitting position beside me and tilted his head.  "Why?"

"I've got a riddle for you.  It's a long one, so pay attention, okay?" I signed.

Grissom smiled faintly at me.  "Okay."

I took a breath and began to sign rapidly.  "There once was an incredibly intelligent and beautiful Princess who had many suitors.  She loved only one of these men, and although he was also intelligent and quite handsome, he was much older than the Princess, and not a Prince at all, but a shopkeeper.  The King was reluctant to force his daughter to marry a man she did not love, for fear she would one day resent him for his choice.  So this king, being very wise - as the best kings are - devised a contest to see who would be allowed to take the Princess' as his wife, knowing that a Prince would win, and then his daughter would have to give up the notion of marrying a poor shopkeeper."  Grissom shook his head slightly in amusement at my story.

"The King," I continued, "put the Princess in a carpeted room measuring fifty feet square.  The king chose three of her best suitors, and each one was put in a corner of the room with a small box to stand on, with her beloved occupying the fourth corner.  The first man to touch the Princess' hand would be the winner, and he would be allowed to marry the Princess and become the new King.  However, the contestants could not walk over the carpet, cross the plane of the carpet, or hang from anything; nor could they use anything but their body and wits - no magic, no ladders, no tools of any kind.  Tough game, huh?"  My hands were tiring but I steeled myself to finish what I had to say.

"Very.  Perhaps if he built a rope bridge of some kind—"

"Grissom," I chided, "no rope bridges.  Just listen to the rest of the riddle."

"Sorry," he signed back.  "Go on."

"As the Princess stood tearfully in the middle of the room, wracking her sizable brain for a way out of this conundrum, her beloved exclaimed 'Aha!'.  The old shopkeeper had figured out a way to touch the Princess' hand without leaving the box he stood on.  Their fingers slid together, and the King admitted defeat.  The Princess and the shopkeeper were allowed to marry and although the shopkeeper turned down the King's generous offer of the throne, he *felt* like a king from that day forward, because he had his beloved Princess with him.  Now, Mr. Grissom, how did the shopkeeper solve the problem?"

Grissom was silent in thought for a few minutes.  I watched his eyes, amused that I could tell by the expression in his eyes each time he alighted upon, and subsequently discarded, a possible solution.  "I don't know," he finally signed.  "That's a great riddle, to have stumped me.  How did the shopkeeper win the Princess' hand?"

"Elementary, my dear Grissom," I teased, my signs slowed to convey a gentle tone.  "The shopkeeper simply gave the Princess one of his irresistible grins and asked her to do what he wasn't able to do - to cross the carpet and touch his hand."  I slid down, stifling a yawn as the exhaustion of the day hit me.

Slipping under the sheet beside me, Grissom reached out and rested his hand on my stomach tentatively.  I curled into him, and before I drifted off to sleep, I took one last chance.  I formed my hand into the sign for 'I love you' and rested it atop his hand.  Grissom took that sign and uncurled my fingers, bringing my palm to his cheek.  The last thing I felt that night was his gentle nod.

THE END

Feedback is better than finding a happy ending that's in-character and not too schmoopy.

tamakesareborn@yahoo.com****

Answer to the riddle: the farmer takes the goat, then the lion across the river.  He takes the goat back with him, exchanges it for the hay, and then makes a final trip to take the goat across.  This is, of course, assuming that the lion doesn't eat him first.  Mrowr.


End file.
